Snow
by Don'tWaitForLife.FightForIt
Summary: They call her Bastard. She wore it as Armour. They made her a Steward. She rose to Lord Commander. They refused her call. Yet she fought for them. They sent assassins. He outlived them all. They put him in shackles. Now he Breaks Chains. They whispered "You cannot withstand the storm. He replied "I am the storm." She is the Wolf Queen. He is the Dragon King. Fem!Jon Male!Daenerys
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: Welcome readers! How are y'all?**

 **A little bit about me - I'm a fan of genderbends and I desperately wanted to try my hand at a female Jon Snow, specifically because I enjoy them and unfortunately there aren't many.**

 _ **Snow**_ **was originally going to be a oneshot series of shorts, snippets and outtakes that were all unconnected. But as I started writing the first chapter, I realised I wanted to make that into a larger story. So here we are, a rewrite of season 7, essentially cannon but with some differences along the way given the genderbent nature of this story.**

 _ **Snow**_ **features Lorna Snow (female Jon Snow) as well as Daeron Targaryen (male Daenerys).**

 **In case anyone's wondering, my face claim for Lorna Snow is Hayley Atwell. If anyone has ever seen Pillars of the Earth, you'd probably say she could have even been Lyanna Stark.** **Daeron Targaryen, I'd imagine, is played by either Charlie Hunnam or Joel Kinnaman - odd choices, but you'll see why, i hope - it does have to do with Daeron having a back story rather different to Daenerys, specifically with regards to their childhood and early adolescence and it will be explored further into the season, as Lorna and Daeron begin to get to know one another.**

 **Please leave reviews! Flames will not be tolerated.**

 **Now.. onto the first story...**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. They are the property of George RR Martin and HBO.**

* * *

 **SANSA**

The older girl slams through her chambers doors. Sansa's soft hands barely catch on the wood before it can close on her face. Pushing against the door gentler than her sister had done, she enters the room, quietly shutting the door behind her. Before it can close she catches sight of Lady Brienne and Ser Davos turning into the private hallway; their steps falter, Ser Davos stumbling when Podrick lumbers into him from behind. Ignoring the young squire, the two knights share a brief look with the young Lady of Winterfell. After a moment they nod and turn away but make no move to leave.

Sansa's glad for it. Lorna needs her space and Sansa would prefer not to be interrupted.

Tully blue eyes watch the dark figure, pacing before the fireplace like a predator stalking its territory. Like a wolf.

 _She is the White Wolf._

Longclaw is discarded on the bench, along with her cloak - the one Sansa had made her. Lorna is silent, her gaze fixated on burning embers within the fireplace. She's silent for so long, Sansa begins to wonder if the older girl had given up the old gods of their father, to worship the Red Woman's Lord of Light. She may have sent Melisandre away, but there is no denying the suspicious amount of time the red woman spent with her sister, watching her, whispering to her. Of course Sansa doubted anything or anyone could easily persuade Lorna; baseborn or nor, she's still a Stark. And Stark's are too stubborn for their own good. Sansa knows that better than anyone.

Eventually her sister does speak her mind, and it's what the younger girl had been expecting... "You should not have done that."

"What other choice did I have?" Sansa replies.

Lorna turns on her. She may look more Stark than Sansa, but her Northern eyes betray none of the fire in her spirit - a fire Sansa had not known existed anywhere outside of battle. If she were anyone else, she might be afraid. But she knows Lorna. Well... she knows enough to know that her fire burns with bitterness and sadness, with the guilt of all her burdens and not any true wrath. Sansa can see the fear in her sister's storm grey eyes. She grits out a steely, "Why?"

Sansa doesn't know if Lorna hears the command in her voice. She'd only known Cersei to speak like that in perfectly ordinary conversation.

Unflinching, the red-haired girl answers, "Because you deserve it. After everything you've done for them. Defeating Ramsa-"

"But I didn't defeat Ramsay," Lorna cuts her off. "It was you. The Knights of the Vale rode for you. They stay for you. We won because of you, Sansa," Lorna says emphatically as she had done on the bridge that morning, moving closer to her sister. Her dark gaze softens then in a way she only reserves for those closest to her. A few years ago this would not have included Sansa, and for that, the little bird feels blessed. It's been so long, so many years, since someone has looked at her with such genuine warmth and love. Lorna's fingertips trail over Sansa's hair, curving around her cheek, reminding her of how her mother had once done the same. "You're father's daughter trueborn daughter. His heir."

Sansa feels her heart cease with an anger and guilt. "You heard what I said. What little lady Mormont spoke. You may not have his name, but his blood still runs in your veins. You're as much a Stark as I, Lorna."

Lorna shakes her head. "You should be queen. Not me."

 _'Not some baseborn bastard,'_ are the words unspoken from the elder girl's lips.

Sansa pulls the hand at her cheeck away, weaving her fingers with her sisters. She fixes Lorna with a determined look. "I declared you the true Queen in the North, because I believe in you. You have overcome so much Lorna."

"And you have not?" the girl asks skeptically. She doesn't mean to wound Sansa's pride. And truthfully, she doesn't. Sansa's learned to withstand a lot. Familial concern does not bother her anymore than how foreign it feels to her after all this time.

Clicking her tongue, Sansa curtly replies, "I have. And it has taught me a lot."

"Like what?"

Suddenly she feels the elder sibling, with the wide-eyed look Lorna's giving her. Suddenly Sansa can see how the woman Arya would have grown to be, and her heart aches for mischievous, dirty little sister. Sighing, she leads Lorna to the table. They sit side by side, Sansa watching the flames, Lorna watching her. Quite a shift from only a few moments ago.

"Do you remember what I told you the night I arrived at Castle Black? About wishing we could take it all back?" Lorna nods silently, prompting Sansa to go on. "I wanted to be a queen. I wanted to marry a handsome and gallant prince and rule the seven kingdoms. No one told me what it truly meant to rule. No one told me the ugliness of the world. No one told me politics was built on lies and backstabbing. All I had were stupid fairytales. My time in King's Landing taught me how to survive. By lying. By cheating. By playing the game." She pauses, taking a moment to meet her sister's gaze. With a sad smile, she confesses, "I learned I don't want to be queen anymore. I don't want to rule. I don't want to play the game."

"Even though you're good at it? Better than I could ever hope to be."

"Especially because of that."

Lorna studies her a moment, before saying, "You know I wasn't raised like you and Robb. I wasn't raised to lead. My lessons with Maester Luwin taught me little of how to be Lady of a Keep, let alone politics and nobility and least of all how to rule."

"And yet you've sat on war councils, lead thousands of men into battle and made peace between wildlings and the Night's Watch, and now the Northern Houses. You are the youngest person to ever rise to the rank of Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, not to mention the first woman to take the black since before the Targaryens' reign," Sansa gushes with pride, though her expression betrays disbelief at her sister's doubts. "Your black brothers chose to follow you. The wildlings chose to follow you. The Northern houses choose to follow you-"

"Because you instigated it-"

"If they took such a displeasure, they would have no problem in voicing out, especially after you tried to abdicate the title to me-"

"Which you would not let me-"

"Because I believe you'd make a good queen!"

Lorna shakes her head, bemused. Once again, she asks, "Why?"

"Did you question your sworn brothers this much when they elected you as Lord Commander?" Sansa asks, with an exasperated sigh.

"No." Lorna is utterly serious. Sansa's about to question her when she realises it. Lorna spent years working her way up the ladder, from being a steward. She'd fought and sacrificed so much and earned her command on the Night's Watch. Even then, she was only a leader, someone to look up to and follow into battle. She didn't rule the Night's Watch, had little control over their laws except where it mattered. Even then her little act of rebellion was received with great hostility, and Lorna had paid the ultimate price.

Sansa sighs, her expression a cross between pity and exasperation at her sister's stupidity. "You idiot," she jokes, shaking her head tiredly. She ignores Lorna's affronted expression. "Lannisters. Baratheons. Greyjoys. Even the Targaryens. They all wanted to rule for the sake of ruling. They all thought that sitting on a throne meant ordering people about. Ruling with fear and intimidation, making sure those below them are sated enough to not thirst for freedom beyond their reach nor realise they are little more than slaves, just pawns in someone else's game. But you're like father. Perhaps better than him, even. When you were Lord Commander, you were in service to the realm. Before that you were a steward, serving another. Before that a bastard, who my mother never hesitated to use as an extra serving hand when other lords visited, if only to appease father's insistence you dine in the Great Hall. You have always been a servant. And that is what those others will never know. A good king or queen doesn't rule their people... they serve them." Sansa squeezes Lorna's hand. "You will make a good queen, sister." She sees some emotion flicker behind Lorna's eyes, a gratitude and acceptance but not for Sansa's rousing speech. No, simply for the acknowledgement of being her sister.

Lorna looks at her then, her eyes imploring. She asks, "But what do you want?"

Sansa feels the ice in her veins. She may look like a Tully, but winter is in her blood. "Cersei. Walder Frey... Little Finger. I want them all to pay. I want them to hurt." Lorna's eyes harden, nodding ever so slightly, her silent show of support, of understanding, of the blood in her veins crying out for revenge. Sansa doesn't stop. "I want the Northern Houses to unite as they did for father and for Robb. I want there to be peace in our lands as there once was before the Usurper and Lions descended upon and tore father away from us. I want to protect our people from the Army of the dead-" she takes a deep breath, letting all the tension and ice melt away, before finishing, "I want our family back... I want to rest."

Lorna looks at her with such compassion and pity, she hates it. Sansa hates Lorna for it because she hate her at all. She doesn't realise she's shedding any tears, until she feels arms wrap around her, pulling her close to rest her head against her sister's breast, her tear drops landing on the black material, shimmering like small crystals in the dim firelight. Sansa's hands curl around Lorna's waist, while the older girl settles her chin on the crown of her head. Sansa feels her eyes flicker closed, lulled by the tattoo of Lorna's heartbeat.

For a moment, all that can be heard is crackle of the fire, Lorna's soft breaths in time to Sansa's muffled whimpers, and the low whistle of the winds of winter outside the window.

Lorna inhales deeply. "We've never been particularly close. I know I'm not enough. But I promise you, they will burn for what they've done to our family. For what they've done to you. I won't let them hurt you again."

Sansa doesn't correct her this time. For a moment she wants to believe in something. For a moment she wants to trust someone. Sinking further into her sister's embrace, Sansa replies, "You are enough."

* * *

 **AN: Sooo... I hope y'all like. Please leave a review it will be much appreciated:D**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Welcome back lovely readers. I'm glad so many of you enjoyed tbe first chapter!**

 **Last chapter I said who I thought would play Lorna Snow and DaeronTargaryen. I'm curious to see who you guys would pick.**

 **Now... onto the chapter...**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or its characters. They are the property of George RR Martin and HBO.**

* * *

 **DAERON**

The young king expects to see fear in Lord Varys' eyes, or at the very least caution. And perhaps there is some of it there, but the Spider hides it well, so that all Daeron sees reflected back at him is a quiet respect. From the corner of his eye, Tyrion is frozen watching the pair of them with earnest. The moment passes, Carys offers a tight smile, nodding surreptiously, "I would not expect anything less, my king. I must admit, it'll be refreshing to have a king willing to take criticism."

Daeron allows a slight smile at the compliment. Off to the side, Tyrion is happily pouring three cups of wine. Before any further word can be exchanged, Grey Word is entering the chambers, Missandei at his side. "Forgive me, my king," the soldier nods, "A red priestess from As'shai has come to see you."

The red priestess waits for Daeron's counsel in the throne room, her back turned to throne. Daeron watches her carefully; he can't help but feel there is something different about this priestess, compared to the ones he'd met before. Something... _more_... and that very thought makes him uneasy.

He hides his discomfort at her auspicious presence rather well, for she greets him with a kind smile, bowing her head respectfully. "King Daeron," the red woman speaks to him in High Valyrian, and its a sound so welcome after so many months at sea; Daeron suddenly realises if not for Missandei, there may be few others, if anyone at all, to speak the old tongue with her. The priestess continues, "I was a slave once, bought and sold, scourged and branded. It is an honor to meet the Breaker of Chains." Daeron fills pity for her, but mostly empathy. Bought and sold. Scourged and branded. Yes, he knows exactly what that feels like, thinking of the many scars that adorn his body; even now after so many years, he still feels the iron weight of his chains tearing at his skin.

"The Red Priests helped bring peace to Meereen," Daeron replies in high Valyrian, "You are very welcome here. What is your name?"

"I am called Melisandre."

Daeron is about to ask the woman to speak her piece when his thoughts are interrupted by Lord Varys announcing, "She once served another who wanted the Iron Throne. It didn't end well for Stannis Baratheon, did it?" There's an undertone of warning in his voice.

A shadow of sadness flickers across Melisandre's face, her sharp features pulling in a sad frown. "No, it didn't," she answers, bearing a weight of guilt on her shoulders. It makes Daeron consider Vary's subtle warning; and yet he won't let the conversation from earlier slide.

"You chose an auspicious day to arrive at Dragonstone," the young king begins. "We've just decided to pardon those who served the wrong king," he says, glancing back at Varys. The Spider has none of the slightest regret at the accusations he'd appointed towards the Red Woman, taking Daeron's own warning in stride. Daeron almost has to suppress a smirk. He can see why Tyrion gets along with the Eunuch.

"The Lord of Light doesn't have many followers in Westeros, does he?" he asks, returning his attention to Melisandre.

"Not yet. But even those who don't worship the Lord can serve his cause."

 _'She wants something from me,'_ Daeron thinks. "What does your Lord expect from me?"

Melisandre pauses, considering Daeron a moment. When she speaks again, it is High Valyrian - a prophcy no doubt. "The Long Night is coming. Only the prince who was promised can bring the dawn."

Daeron has heard such whispers in the streets of Meereen, though back then had never paid any mind to it. Tyrion on the other hand had always been more cautious of the priestesses. His hand is not a devout man, and yet he'd been wary of the power behind those words. Daeron on the other hand, can't help but feel it would be a nice edition to his many titles, his first to forge back in his homeland... "The prince who was promised will bring the dawn... has a nice ring to it," the young king muses, quite happily.

"Your Grace, forgive me," Missandei interrupts, "- but your translation is not quite accurate. That noun has no gender in High Valyrian, so the proper translation for that prophecy would be _'The prince or princess who was promised will bring the dawn_.'"

"Doesn't really roll off the tongue, does it?" Tyrion comments, rather skeptically.

"No, it doesn't." Daeron agrees, unhappily. He glances back at the red woman, eyes narrowing with curiosity (and perhaps a little hope) - "But it was not chance that brought you to me. You believe this prophecy refers to me?"

Melisandre hesitates - another flicker of guilt. "Prophecies are dangerous things. I believe you have a roll to play... as does another-" Daeron can't help but frown, but Melisandre goes on, "The Queen in the North, Lorna Snow." There's something in the way the red woman says the name, a reverence, moreso than that which she had shown to him moments earlier.

"Lorna Snow?" he hears Tyrion quip, surprise overcoming him. "Ned Stark's bastard?" he asks, a little hope slipping into his voice.

"You know her?" Daeron questions. Tyrion seems taken aback, almost as if he'd momentarily forgotten them all.

"I traveled with her to the Wall," his Hand answers.

"The Night's Watch?" Varys questions. "What business does a girl have with the criminals, distant sons and baseborn churls sworn to protect the seven kingdoms from narks and grumpkins?"

"She wanted to join the Black. She did," Tyrion answers.

"She..." Tyrion had once told Daeron that never in the history of their acquaintence has he known the spider to be one lost for words, a fact Daeron can attest to, give the conversation he'd had with the eunuch only minutes earlier in his solar. And yet here they are, the Eunuch lost for words at Tyrion's answer. Daeron's not sure if Varys' wordlessness or ignorance of the subject altogether shocks him more. Then again, the Night's Watch has no significance to the seven kingdoms politically except as an excuse for exiles and criminals to cheat death; of course Varys would not waste any birds to spy on the black brothers. Giving up, or perhaps grasping for some sort of explanation, the man turns their attention back to the witch, throwing his question -their curiosity- to the priestess to answer... "Why do you think the Lord of Light singled out this Lorna Snow, aside from the visions you've seen in the flames, that is?"

Melisandre smiles, as if a proud mother. "As Lord Commander of the Night's Watch she allowed the Wildlings south of the Wall to protect them from great danger. As Queen in the North she has united those Wildlings with the northern houses so together they may face their common enemy."

Daeron had heard of the squabbling Baratheon brothers; of the powerlusting Tyrell's. He'd known about the Stark King, the one they called the Young Wolf, of how the Lannisters paid a mighty sum to sway his own allies to betray him, butcher him, his family and his men at a wedding of all places. Daeron knew of Cersei and her golden-haired bastards with their false claims to his throne. He knew of how the kindoms blatantly turned a blind eye for what other choice were they given, when war between petty usurpers had destroyed their lands and livelihoods. Tyrion had insisted Daeron be prepared for Westerosi politics.

The dragon prince had expected to return to an already crumbling kingdom under Cersei's rule. He'd not expected to find another contender - a formidable one it would seem - laying claim to half of the kingsom he'd foolishly thought to be ripe for his to reclaim. Especially not from a woman bastard with no claim over her ancestral plains. "She sounds like quite a woman," Daeron muses, unable to keep the distaste out of his tone.

"Summon Lorna Snow," Melisandre advises him, a knowing look in her eye. "Let her stand before you and tell you things that have happened to her, the things that she has seen with her own eyes."

Daeron hesitates, unsure if he really could risk making an ally of the Northerner. Tyrion steps up to the challenge however. Eyeing the red woman, the dwarf speaks, "I can't speak to prophecies or visions in the flames, but I like Lorna Snow and I trusted her, and I am an excellent judge of character," he finishes with a knowing grin, reminding Daeron of an old conversation they'd once had when Tyrion had said almost those very same words to him. The young king cannot help but feel his resolves soften as his Hand continues, "If she does rule the north, she would make a valuable ally. The Lannisters executed her father and conspired to murder her brother. Lorna Snow has even more reason to hate Cersei than you do."

 _"_ Very well," Daeron responds after a moment's consideration - and by consideration he means enduring Tyrion silently begging him with child-like puppy eyes. "Send a raven north," he commands the dwarf, earning a smile from Tyrion. "Tell Lorna Snow that her King invites her to come to Dragonstone...and bend the knee."

A few hours later, finds Daeron with Tyrion once again in his counsel chambers. "Have you sent the raven?"

"I have."

"Good," Daeron nods. Tyrion forces a tight smile, nodding in return, while reaching for the wine. A frown pulls at his lips. "What displeases you?"

"You summoned her here, to bend the knee," Tyrion replies monotonously, careful to keep the judgement out of his tone. But they've known each far too long, far too well for Daeron to miss it.

Tyrion offers his a cup which he accepts, asking, "Should I not have? I am after all, the rightful King of the seven kingdoms. The North is one of those kingdoms."

"Yes, but you do understand she is a bastard?" Tyrion asks over the brim of his goblet.

"Even more fitting then she bend the knee. She has no true claim to the North."

"Exactly," Tyrion replies, sternly. He has that expression that tells Daeron he's about to be lectured. "The world is not kind to bastards. Especially not here in Westeros. Lorna Snow may have had a seat at her father's table and his roof over her head and yet she ran away to the Night's Watch for she believed it to be the only place one such as herself could hope to have a chance of better prospects outside of being tavern whore or some hedge knight's wench. No noble northern family would lower themselves to allow even a fifth or sixth son marry someone as baseborn as she, nevermind that Ned Stark cared for her."

"And yet she now rules them..." Daeron trails off, beginning to see the point Tyrion is trying to make.

"The Northern Houses are not bound to her by the blood in her veins alone. They are too proud for that whether they admit it or not. She must be their queen because they deem her worthy of it."

"What does a bastard have to do to earn such unwarranted fealty?"

"Unwarranted?" Tyrion quips, his brows rising skeptically. "A woman Lord Commander of the Night's Watch... I doubt there is anything unwarranted about that. Remember what the Red Woman said. Speak to Lorna Snow, ask her what she has seen, what she has done. Perhaps then we can all come to an understanding."

"And perhaps then she will know her place and bend the knee."

"Did you bend the knee to the Slavers in Meereen?"

"I freed those slaves. They chose me to be their King. I couldn't bargain them away."

"And yet you ask her to bend the knee and expect her to do so?" Daeron frowns, turning his eyes to the flames. Outside the thunder crackles ominously. The quiet patter of Tyrion's feet closing in on him is the only other sound. His Hand sighs, "I am not telling you that you are wrong. You are fully within your right to demand the Queen's fealty. I only ask you to exercise more caution when you do meet her. And be ready to be met by her resistance."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: So we are back for chapter 3. Just a short chapter but I will update with the fourth in a few days.**

 **Hope y'all enjoy. Don't forget to leave a review. Constructive criticism is welcome. Any and all questions are welcome. Flames are not.**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. They are the property of George R R Martin and HBO.**

* * *

 **SANSA**

Little over a month passes when a raven arrives from Dragonstone. Dragonstone, the fortress which lies upon a mountain of dragonglass, their one true weapon against the Night King and his army of the dead.

The Northern Houses contest the Dragon King's summons. Sansa agrees with them, although her first husband had been a good and true man in spite of his lascivious tastes. She agrees, despite the disappointment that flickers across Lorna's pretty but sullen features. She agrees because Starks tend not to live long when they ride south upon the summons of southern kings.

Lorna flashes her one of her rare tongue in cheek grins, saying, "I'm no Stark."

 _'But you are!'_ Sansa wants to shout at her. _'You've always been a Stark to me. I hated you when we were little because you were a bastard who looked more like the true Lady of Winterfell than me! I wanted to be you and I hated it!'_ All these thoughts swarm Sansa's head. But nothing more than the crippling fear that she would lose her sister. Her last living blood relative, the last living memory of happier times.

But Sansa has more pride than to beg. She tries to reason with Lorna the only way she knows how - by manipulating and cornering her... "You're abandoning your people. You're abandoning your home."

"I'm leaving both in good hands," Lorna huffs, more annoyed than insulted as any other noble would have been.

"Whose?" Sansa demands to know.

"Yours," Lorna replies, expression smug beneath her cool facade at Sansa's surprise. "You are my sister," the queen explains, "You are the only Stark in Winterfell. And there must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

"I-" Sansa can't help the stuttering breath. "Are you sure?" she asks, paying no mind to the other lords. She cares not for their opinions about two young girls discussing politics. These men may be twenty, thirty, forty years on herself and Lorna, but none will know what it truly means to rule, to play the game of thrones, though at this point she's certain there will be no 'playing' from Lorna's end. No, Lorna would flip the board where their father had foolishly thought he could wave the disregarded rule-book.

Lorna fixes her with a steady gaze. "I trust none more than you to hold down the fort. You challenge my decisions, advise my counsel. There was a time when we were children and not very close but now - I daresay there is only one other who knows me as well as you. You are my heir. You are the Queen's justice, my Hand."

Sansa inhales sharply.

Few murmurs are about the room, a couple of eyes cast towards Ser Davos but the Onion Knight himself seems unperturbed by the decision - in fact he appears unsurprised altogether. "Sansa," Lorna begins again, her voice soft and gentle, despite the power that exudes from it, "-until I return, the North is yours."

A week later they embrace in the courtyard, as they had at Castle Black. They each whisper soft promises to find each other again, to be reunited again. They don't cry. They refuse to let these men see anymore weakness outside of their embrace.

When Lorna pulls away, Sansa glances at her attire, a grin adorning her beautiful face. She's been smiling a lot lately. She's even had a few laughs whenever she and Lorna would get drunk enough not wanting to cry as they shared memories of their family - almost every other night practically. Her eyes run over her sister's clothes, quietly tutting despite the fact that she had made Lorna's garments herself. Lorna refuses to wear dresses, as if a battle were imminent and the long skirts would only hinder her. Sansa's sure it must br strange for her, after years dressing like a man at the Wall.

Yet Sansa couldn't help but add a feminine touch, a short leather dress rather than a vestcoat to pair with her chauses, and a new leatherlined breastplate Sansa had especially commissioned from the blacksmith, one more fitting for Lorna's figure as opposed to box she'd been wearing at the Wall; she couldn't blame Lorna for the fact the sworn brothers had probably never had to make armour for a woman. Of course, Lady Brienne had helped with the specifics and it had paid off; after an intense spar with Tormund and Brienne, Lorna had been forced to admit the new armour had improved her fighting agility.

Seeing her sister's gaze, Lorna's eyes drop down to the direwolf sigil on her breastplate. Her fingers stroke over the imprint. "I really love it," she says. "Especially the colour," Lorna jokes.

Sansa rolls her eyes. "You still look like you're in the Night's Watch."

"Black's always been my colour," Lorna replies, a sad lilt to her smile. "I said something similar to Robb the last time we spoke."

Sansa's grin drops, fear creeping into her heart again. "Come back to me," she orders.

"I will," Lorna promises.

"I'll hold you to your word."

"I don't doubt it."

Ghost manages to sneak up on them, as silent as always. He nuzzles against Lorna's stomach, while she lays kisses on his snout. Sansa sheds a forelorn smile at the pair, silently mourning Lady. Robb had told her that Lorna was the reason they got to keep their direwolves, describing it as an omen for the Starks.

Now years later, Sansa can't help but realise how true it had been.

"You sure you don't want to take him?" she asks her sister. "I'd rest easier knowing you'd have him to protect, not that I doubt Ser Davos' skill," she adds seeing Ser Davos join them.

Ser Davos nods at her, shrugging his shoulders. "No offence taken my lady. I'm not exactly fighting fit these days."

Lorna shakes her head at his jovial nature, her gloved fingers still trailing through her direwolf's white coat. Turning to Sansa, she says, "Daeron Targaryen has three dragons and a Dothraki horde. If he meant me any harm, I doubt even Ghost would be able to protect me. It's better if he stays here, to protect you."

"I have Brienne, Podrick and the entire Northern army. I don't need anymore protection," Sansa huffs.

"You're my little sister, I will always protect you. Even here, we're still surrounded by enemies," she fixes Sansa with a stern look. Silent understanding comes over the younger girl, and suddenly she's unable to ignore Littlefinger's stare burning into her. He nods when he catches her gaze, and she forces a smile, quickly turning her attention back to her sister.

Lorna on the other hand is still glaring at Petyr Baelish. "Why?" the young queen grits out.

"He's still useful."

Lorna looks upon her then with regret and pity. Sansa knows exactly what she's thinking - how sorry she must feel that the Lions and vipers have sunk their claws into her little sister, and turned the sweet dreamy-eyed girl into an untrusting, calculating creature who sees enemies everywhere. A week earlier Lorna had commented that she sounded as if she admired Cersei; Sansa supposes she does, in a similar way that she admires Baelish. They taught her the truth of the world, in all its ugliness where no one else had; they taught her what it meant to survive; and for that, she is grateful. If not for their lessons, she would still be a scared little bird. No she fears nothing, not even death; she only fears for those she loves, now that she has someone to be loyal to and love again.

But Lorna never says anything; and Sansa's grateful for it. She's seen judgement in others' eyes, those who accused her of her loyalties to Houses Lannister and Bolton. Those who see her with Baelish, and sometimes even with Brienne, having heard rumours about the maiden knight regarding Renly Baratheon and the Kingslayer. But with Lorna, there is never any judgement. And she supposes it's because the older girl had her own Cersei's and Joffrey's at the Wall; she too learned the harsh truth of the Night's Watch that their father and uncle had kept from her. She too faced monsters as real and terrifying as Ramsay and Joffrey had been for Sansa.

"Alright. I trust you."

Sansa nods, a small smile fluttering at her lips. "Fare well, Snow," she whispers.

"And you, Stark."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: So here we are... chapter 4. And finally getting to hear Lorna's thoughts.**

 **Thank you guys for your reviews. I too love female Jon stories (clearly) but was surpriaed to find the lack of male Daenerys and really thought it'd be intereating. Of course that means they're trials and backstories won't be 100% identical to that of Jon and Daenerys, as we'll come to see.**

 **Please continue to leave reviews, comments, questions, etc. Constructive criticism is welcome, Flames are not.**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. They are the property of George R.R. Martin and HBO.**

* * *

 **LORNA**

Pale moonlight reflects off the waves, glistening like thousands of diamonds on the surface of inky oceanic depths. Salty sea spray dusts her face like a hundred fluttering kisses, as the cool breeze presses on her, whipping her curly hair about wildly. She'd allowed it to grow out over the last few months, since leaving Castle Black. Now it rests just below her shoulder, longer than it has in years, but still not as long as it had been when she'd just been the Bastard of Winterfell - back then her hair had been longer than Sansa's, reaching below her waist.

 _"Go on Tommy. Sheer her good. She's never met a lad she likes better than her own hair..."_ Lorna smiles at the fond memory.

Closing her eyes, she inhales the scent of the sea. She'd always thought it would smell like ice - a soft peppermint fragrance. But no, it smells sweeter and saltier all at once, as Theon had boasted to her several times in their childhood. She could only really compare it to sweat on her lips after a hard-won fight. That in itself is of some comfort, she supposes. Familiar.

For a moment, though, she can almost convince herself that she's a watcher on the Wall again. Even theraucous laughter and drunken, jovial singing of her entourage reminds her of the more festive nights with her sworn brothers. A pair of heavy set feet approach her carefully, coming to a standstill at her side. Lorna opens her eyes, half expecting to see Sam standing there. But reality hits her as soon as she opens her eyes, taking in the sight of their small ship, a vast ocean surrounding them and Ser Davos at her side.

The older man offers her a fatherly smile that Lorna can't help but return. She's not known the man long before she died, but she'd liked him, respected him, and he'd never left her side since she'd woken up. It's not as it were with Jeor Mormornt. No, her kinship to Ser Davos is much like that which she shared with her father, her uncle Benjen and even Tormund. He became her family when many of her own brothers had turned on her.

"Brooding again, I see." Lorna levels him with a look, though there's no heat in it. He glances over his shoulder at the small band of men sharing a bottle of ale around the fire. "They seem to be enjoying themselves, at least."

Lorna follows his gaze. "They're afraid."

"Well I don' know about tha-"

"Yes, you do. As well as I do," Lorna cuts him, a soft smile on her face despite the growing storm inside her. Davos appears sheepish for the half-baked attempt to comfort her. A smile drops a bit, the sulleness in her coming out. "Tell me I'm doing the wrong thing."

He hesitates, and for half a second she fears the worst. But then he replies, "I can't." She looks at him curiously, but gratefully all the same. "It's a risk, I'll admit. I remember the Mad King. Awful times," he shakes his head, a shiver of fear crawling up his spine at the memories.

Lorna sighs, dejectedly. "This is crazy. What if Sansa was right? I mean what do we really know about Daeron Targaryen?"

"Well if the rumours are true, he might not be as bad as we think?"

"And which rumours are you referring to? The one of how his dragons carry out the king's justice? Or the one where he stood aside while a Dothraki khaleesi gave his brother a crown of molten gold?"

"I meant the ones where he abolished slavery in the free cities."

"Funny how those same slaves now serve him, apparently."

Ser Davos sighs beside her and Lorna has the decency to feel ashamed by craveness. "I'm sorry-"

"It's okay to be afraid, your grace," he tells her kindly, squeezing her shoulder gently.

"I'm not afraid. Not of Daeron Targaryen," she says, but then her voice drops. Sighing she returns her gaze to the endless seas. She whispers, "I can't afford to be."

"Can I ask you something, your grace?" Lorna doesn't answer, but tilts her head ever so slightly to him, subtly lending Ser Davos her ear. "You've spent five years on the Night's Watch, the only woman among a horde of men, rapers and murderers. You've been beyond the wall. Fought wildlings and white walkers, men twice your size and well seasoned in battle. Were you ever afraid then?"

Lorna closes her eyes, huffing a short chuckle. She shakes her head, bowing it humbly.

"My point exactly, you grace. Only a fool would not be afraid. And you're no fool."

"I daresay many of my bannermen would not agree with you."

"I don't blame them. This is bloody crazy. But what other choice do we have? Only you know what the Winter brings."

Lorna shoots him a look of gratitude, though it's sombre at best, overcast by haunting memories of Hardholme. A frown tugs at her lips, her eyes searching the horizon from which they came - beyond White Harbour, beyond Winterfall, beyond the Wall. She exhales a shuddering breath, icy wisps falling from her lips. She mutters, "And is Winter is here."

A fortnight passes. Lorna has taken to spending as much time on the upper deck as she can, eyes shut, feeling the breeze upon her face. She does her best to ignore the sound of waves crashing against the side of the vessel, as well as the perpetual taste of brine on her tongue. The majesty of the seas that she had beholden that first nights had quickly been swept away by turbulent nausea, her innards ready at any moment to present their contents. If not for Ser Davos, she would have grown frail from starving herself, barely able tolerate a meal these days. She could easily hide away in her quarters, but its smaller than her chambers at the Wall had been, far too claustrophobic and the motion sickness only seemed to grow down there.

At the thought, she feels her stomach turnover on itself. She tries to block out the sensation, forces herself to imagine herself back at Winterfell or on the Wall, overlooking a blanket of snow as far as the eye can see. But the waves are too loud, as are the chatter of her men, and the squawking of those gulls... _'What are birds doing so far out to sea?'_

Her eyes snap up and sure enough they are, circling above and diving towards the water surface, snatching at fish to eat.

"Your Grace?" She turns at the sound of Micah Tallhart - he's fairly young; as young as she and Robb were when they set out from Winterfell. He looks a lot like Robb, save for his hazel brown eyes - fair skin, russet hair, tall and lean, not stocky like his cousins had been.

"Micah," she nods at them.

He gestures for her to look starboard. She follows his line of sight, coming to stand by him at the railing. "Dragonstone, your grace," he says. Lorna feels nothing as she stares up at the forte. It's unlike anything she's ever seen. So... Valyrian. Befitting of the Targaryen King, given his ancestors erected it. Ser Davos had described it to her once - she'd thought it sounded ominously like a grand prison.

She feels nothing as she looks upon the eponymous island. And yet she feels everything. It's the sensation of being winded.

"What do you think he's like?" she hears Micah whisper, fear bleeding into his voice, unable to hide its tremble.

She's asked herself the same question time and again. And as much as she's persuaded to believe that Daeron will be exactly like the Mad King, she can't help but wonder of the truth in Ser Davos' words; and then there's Tyrion. Tyrion wouldn't align himself with his family's enemies just to spite them... well he might. But she knows him to be a good man. He saved her life and her virtue. Taught her to turn her weaknesses into strengths. She doesn't believe he'll support a cruel man. Not after Joffrey. Not after Tywin.

She stares quietly at the rock a moment longer, thinking on Micah's question. She answers, "He's a king."

"He is, your grace," Micah says, bemused.

"All kings ask the same thing - except for my brother."

"What's that your grace?"

"To bend the knee. To fight _for_ them."

"You've known many kings, your grace?"

"Personally? Only two."

"Did they ask you to bend the knee?" She nods in answer. "What happened to them?"

"One died in the Battle of Winterfell."

"And the other?"

"I shot an arrow through his heart."

Micah falls silent at her response. Lorna herself can't bring herself to say much else on the matter, although she knows he's dying to ask her about it. She only feels regret for the King-Beyond-the-Wall. They had fought on opposite sides yes, but now none can empathise for his plight better than she.

The boy seems to find his voice again, "King Daeron will ask you to bend the knee, your grace. Will you?"

"No," she answers bluntly.

"No?" he echoes. The unspoken, _'not even under threat of burning?'_ is loud and clear.

"No," she repeats. "I don't fight for him or any other king. I won't."

Micah nods, a curious expression coming over his face. Lorna almost smiles; there's something so innocent about him. It reminds her of Pyp and Grenn, always keen to learn some new move from her, never shying away from the fact that she lacked a cock. "If you don't mind me asking, your grace. Who do you fight for?"

She remembers Sansa's words now. ' _You have always been a servant.'_ She recalls Ser Davos counselling her about her vows. She remembers a conversation in a tent, somewhere in the frigid North, far beyond the Wall, one of the bravest men she's ever known calling her a crow, a bastard, an ally.

She raises her chin, a fire sparking within her as she stares up at Dragonstone where the dragon king awaits. Fingers trail over the white wolfhead pommel of her sword, and her voice is as sharp as her Valyrian blade when she answers, "I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men." She notices then a third presence, Ser Davos. He's watching her carefully, looking at her the same way he had when she'd been resurrected, when she been crowned queen. The corners of her lips tug upwards. "I fight for the living." Giving her attention back to young soldier, she orders him to gather the others and prepare a boat. He bows his head and quickly disappears.

"You still remember that old oath, huh?"

"I spent years memorising it. Sometimes when I can't sleep I recite it instead of counting sheep," she answers truthfully, earning an amused chuckle from the older man.

"Are you ready, your grace?" Davos finally asks her, hands behind his back.

"Davos, how many times must I tell you-"

"I apologise," he grins. "Are you ready, Lorna?"

She turns to glance back at the castle. "As I'll ever be," she says releasing a breath. "What's a dragon compared to the Night King's army?"

Within the hour they've dropped anchor and clambering into a rocking boat; a raven sent ahead to island to alert the king to have someone to waiting to receive them. Davos takes a seat at the helm with Lorna, each an oar in hand. Micah's companions Elias and Brandon Langford - vassals of Bear Island - are seated on the middle bench oars at hand while Micah at the stern takes the rudder.

Lorna eyes the three boys, curiously. A question had plaguing her mind for the past fortnight, and now, uncertain of what path lies ahead of them, finds herself compelled to ask, "Why did you volunteer, boys?"

They all seem taken aback by the question. "Pardon, your grace?" Micah asks.

"I did not ask for anyone to accompany myself and Ser Davos, yet you and your friends came. Why?"

"You needed protection your grace."

"If I wanted protection I would have brought my direwolf. But even Ghost cannot protect me against dragons and an army of Dothraki and Unsullied soldiers," she replies, heaving the oar once again. She glances over her shoulder to see they're still a ways away from the shore. Her arms are already sore. Not for the first time, she's glad she was never born on the Iron Islands.

"Why not take an army of men with you then?" Elias asks, genuinely curious. He had not been the first to ask, even Sansa had protested to the last minute.

"I'm not here to threaten the king. I'm here to talk to him. Besides, the North is where our army is needed, should the White Walkers breech the Wall," Lorna explains. "Now are you boys going to answer my question. I'd rather not pull rank on you," she adds slightly teasingly.

It's Micah to answer first - "My cousin, Eddara. Said she remembered you from when you were both little girls, whenever my uncle visited Winterfell. Said she used to be shy. Shier than you but you were always kind to her, even though her brothers were mean to you. Said you were really brave, especially when you joined the Night's Watch, even when everyone else told you it was stupid."

A tiny smile graces the broody queen's face. "I remember her well. She sent flowers to the Wall when my father died. And then with Robb."

"And when you became Lord Commander," he reminds her.

"Aye, she did," Lorna says. "Blue winter roses. She knew they were my favourite."

Micah nods, a small smile on his face. "Eddara asked our soldiers to volunteer to commit to your cause, that there would be no punishment if they refused. Our family, our men - they believed in your father and your brother. After the Red Wedding, not many were willing to follow a Stark, let alone the bastard of one - no offence your grace."

"No offence taken. Once the name Bastard of Winterfell would have made me cry. Now - I wear it as armour," she says, inwardly grinning. Once again she glances back at the fast approaching shore. Sure enough, the dwarf is there, his dirty blonde hair glinting in the dull sunlight.

"My cousin believed in you though. She said that you'd avenge the North, avenge the blood of yours and ours spilt at the Red Wedding. And I believed in her. I was the first of her men to volunteer to join your forces. Once I volunteered, some others felt compelled to. Not like you could be worse than the Boltons, I had said."

Davos nods. "Thank you. Saved us a trip to Torrhen's Square."

"Don't mention it milord," Micah grins.

"What about you boys?" the older mans puts to the Langford brothers.

The boys share a look - mischievous and charming that it endears Lorna's heart towards them for it reminds her of Pyp and Grenn so. Brandon speaks up, "Dragon king or the living dead... we figured if we're going to die either way-"

"The chances of our names going down in the histories is better this way," Elias finish.

Lorna can't help the chuckle, shaking her head at them as she shares a look with Ser Davos.

"Alright," the onion knight scolds, "Stop day-dreaming about glorious deaths and row faster."


	5. Chapter 5

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yay we made it to chapter 5! Things are starting to become a little more interesting and here we have a perspective we don't see much, but I'm certain is extremely insightful and can be entertaining.**

 **Reviews:**

 **-Bad Ass Female Fighter: Yes it will be interesting to see how Lorna and Daeron will interact; I'm hoping they wil be more familiar than Jon and Daenerys were, and their slightly altered backstories may allow for this. They willdefinitely getto see one another fighting and in battle eventually, not sure how soon. I like the idea of Daeron spying on Lorna while she trains with her men, though I doubt it will be anytime soon, as Lorna wouldn't risk giving a potential enemy the advantage of studying her fighting style. But yes they will definitely see each other in battle - they may even be back to back.**

 **Thank you everyone else too for your positive reviews. If y'all have any questions or anything else, don't forget to review.**

 **Now onto the story...**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. They are the property of George R.R. Martin and HBO.**

* * *

 **MISSANDEI**

The cold winds blow about the beach. Not even at sea had the former-slave-turned-advisor-to-the-King ever felt this cold. It would certainly take some getting used to. For someone as herself, born and raised in the Land of Always Summer, Winter will be a trepidation - that is if she doesn't freeze in her new boots.

Lord Tyrion stands before her, and their Dothraki guards surround them.

Missandei eyes Lord Tyrion; he seems rather eager to greet this self-proclaimed Queen, much to their king's disgruntlement. It had come as much as a shock to all them about this new ruler. Since the Red Woman's announcement and Tyrion's summons, they'd been able to gather little information regarding this Lorna Snow; not even Varys' little birds could dig up much, besides the age old rumours surrounding the scandalous birth of the Bastard of Winterfell. Not much is known about her - her father's lady wife had seen to it that she was kept obscured when hosting significant lords. Whatever else they were able to gather only confirmed what Melisandre had already told them; of course there had been the case of the mutiny - the second at Castle Black in Lorna Snow's time there - against her when she'd been Lord Commander. It had been followed shortly by her resignation from the Night's Watch. The Red Woman who had been there at the time refused to divulge much more on the matter, preferring to respect the wolf queen's indiscretion so to speak. She'd told their king that if he were truly curious he could ask Lorna Snow herself, though the latter may choose to remain tight-lipped given the... unpleasantness of the act.

Lord Varys had been quick to speak out that abandoning her vows is punishable by death - her own father had carried out the King's justice on such an occasion many a time. Tyrion had of course argued in favour of the girl he's so fond of. He'd said she was too honourable to simply abandon the Night's Watch - there must have been a reason, a good one. Lord Varys had stilled his tongue after that, only speaking to reluctantly agree that if the queen was anything like her father, the late Ned Stark, then her honour would be the death of her.

Now the queen approaches; she takes the lead of her small band of men, dragging their carry-on boat to the shore. Missandei begins to wonder if all Westerosi queens do they're own heavy lifting while Tyrion's sister alone plays the role of the pampered princess, or whether Yara Greyjoy and Lorna Snow are just oddities of their creed.

Once their feet set on dry land, Lorna Snow drops the weight she carries, her companions following suit. Missandei eyes these men - an older gentlemen who appears past his season for battle - and three 'green-boys' as Lord Tyrion would describe. The queen herself reminds her of Yara Greyjoy also - not in physical appearance - but in that they share the same hard edge and warrior's stance in the way they walk and hold themselves. The difference is, Lorna Snow carries a quiet regality where the Ironborn queen had commanded it. Not to mention the Greyjoy queen seemed more enthused to smile, whereas Lorna Snow appears as sullen and brooding as any of the unsullied. Missandei has to keep from giggling at the thought that Yara and Lorna essentially are Daario Naharis and Grey Worm, though she has a suspicion the two women would ever be as amicable, set aside the fact that the Ironborn were indirectly responsible for Lorna's brother losing the War of the Five Kings, his life and the lives of many Northerners, including that of their two youngest brothers included. Yes, Missandei's beginning to realise there is much to know about all the Starks except for Lorna Snow. A curiosity she will have to inquire about at a later date. Perhaps directly from the horse's mouth, so to speak.

"The bastard of Winterfell," the Lannister greets the young queen. Missandei keeps from frowning, once again unsure what the insult means.

"The dwarf of Casterly Rock," Lorna Snow replies, just as solemnly. There's a moment of quiet, where both Lord Tyrion and the Northern queen stare at each, before breaking into smiles. They each step forward and shake hands. Missandei keeps from frowning again; she'd thought it custom to greet women of nobility with a bow or kiss on the hand. Yet there was nothing undermining in the way Tyrion greeted her, and judging by Lorna Snow's expression she too took no insult.

"I believe we last saw each other on top of the Wall," Tyrion says.

"You were pissing off the edge, if I remember right," Lorna Snow says, shocking Missandei again, as well as earning well-kept chuckle from one of the green-boys. "You picked up some scars along the road," Lorna adds, nodding towards Tyrion.

The Hand too nods, head dropping slightly, no doubt as he recalls the memory. "It's been a long road," he shrugs, his tone ominous with the struggles of his past -"But we're both still here." Lord Tyrion then addresses the older gentleman in the Northern company. "I'm Tyrion Lannister."

"Davos Seaworth," the man introduces himself, reaching forward to shake Tyrion's hand.

"Ah, the Onion Knight," Tyrion says, "We fought on opposite sides at the Battle of Blackwater Bay."

"Unluckily for me."

Lord Tyrion then gestures to herself, "This is Missandei. She is the king's most trusted advisor."

The young advisor smiles sweetly. "Welcome to Dragonstone," she bows her head, a sign of respect. "Our king knows this is a long journey. He appreciates the effort you have made on his behalf. If you wouldn't mind handing over your weapons," she finishes, gesturing to their Dothraki guards to step forward.

Lorna and Ser Davos share a look, glancing at their men - boys. They boys looks afraid, moreso than they did when they feet first touched the shore. They look to their queen half-desperately, but she nods at them reassuringly. Reluctantly, the soldiers withdraw their scabbards. Missandei silently commends them for not shaking as they handed over their weapons.

As the Dothraki step towards the queen and her advisor, Lorna tenses. She eyes the Dothraki, almost as if contemplating just striking him down. Missandei is curious enough to want to see how that would turn out. Lorna is certainly no small, dainty creature. ' _She must indeed be a great fighter,'_ Missandei thinks watching the way Lorna handles her sword when submitting it to them - it's with the same care and grace she's seen Grey Worm tend to his own blades.

Just as the blade falls into Qhono's hand, Lorna tenses again, refusing to relinquish her hold. "Don't lose it," she warns the bloodrider. He quirks a brow at her, half amused at the subtle threat, before pulling away with it.

The Northerners turn to watch the men walk away with their weapons, a few others pulling their small boat further up the beach. The small group share a look, one that communicates a feeling of imprisonment. Missandei hopes for their sake this would not be true, so long as they bend the knee to her king.

"I came without an army," Lorna Snow asks, turning her attention back to Missandei and Tyrion. "Is your dragon king afraid of a woman with a sword?"

"Our king is more than capable of defending himself. He fears no one with a sword. He wishes simply to avoid harm to his own men," Missandei explains.

"So the rumours about the fighting pits..." Lorna trails off and Missandei frowns a little, knowing exactly to what the Northerner is referring to. For her part, Lorna Snow doesn't seem to want to get a rise out of them. She's simply genuinely curious. The queen seems to understand that she overstepped, for she quickly apologies... "I don't mean to pry. It's just I know nothing about your king."

Missandei smiles at her. "That seems fair, since he knows nothing about you, save for what Lord Tyrion has told us. And the Red Woman."

Ser Davos' brows raise. "Red Woman?" he asks.

Missandei hums. "Yes. She said she knew you. She advised us to summon you."

"Is she still here?" Ser Davos demands, his prior pleasntness quickly fading into a seething anger. Lorna Snow is not far from him, though much more practised at schooling her expression and quelling her temper.

Tyrion shakes his head, answering for them, "I believe she is already departed. She did mention that she had departed from your lot on less than pleasant terms."

"Less than pleasant? Is that what she told you?" Ser Davos almost growls.

Lorna Snow reaches for him, her hand squeezing his shoulder. "Ser Davos," she entreats, voice low, comforting and commanding all the same. He tenses, eyes staring at nothing, unshed tears in his eyes. Finally he meets his queen's gaze. Her concern is vivid as the roaring seas at their back. She says nothing more to him.

The oldsr man clears his throat, taking a moment to compose himself. "Forgive me," he says to the welcoming party.

"There is nothing to forgive," Missandei offers. She gestures towards the staircase. "Please, this way. We've kept our king waiting long enough."

 _"_ Where are you from?" Ser Davos asks Missandei, joining at her side. "I can't place the accent."

"I was born on the Island of Naarth."

"Ah. I hear it's beautiful down there. Palm trees and butterflies. I haven't been myself."

Missandei feels a twinge of sadness well in her core. Yet she forces a shy smile and moves onward, leaving the older gentleman to fall in place with his queen. The young advisor trails further ahead from the group than she'd meant to, but she can't help it. Her mind is focussed on conjuring images of sandy beaches and palm trees; of thick forests and butterflies every shade of the rainbow. Yet she can't. Nothing she imagines feels real. She once recalled her home with vivid clarity, so much so she would wake in fits of tears, so hauntingly beautiful had the memories been. Her memories. But now they are lost to time and distance. And even though her mind drifts back, always burning with what ifs, a dull ache in her heart, a yearning for her homeland, Missandei knows she would not return to it. Not now for the love she has for her dearest friend and king, and especially not when it means leaving Grey Worm. Grey Worm... she wonders where he is now. Whether he is safe. And from there her mind recalls vividly the... many things they'd done. A shiver of pleasure runs up her spine, her fingers itching excitedly at the memory of his tongue and his fingers...

She tries to break away from the distracting thoughts knowing it will be far too unseemly if she were to start moaning right then. She tries turning her attention to the snippets of conversation that drift up to her. Namely Lord Tyrion and Lorna Snow discussing the latter's sister. It had come as a surprise to all of the king's court, to hear he had been wed to the young Lady Stark.

Missandei is doing well to distract herself until Tyrion mentions the word 'unconsummated' and her mind takes a spiral down a very indecent road once again, thinking of things very un-unconsummated.

She's snapped out of her thoughts by the familiar sound of her king's children. Missandei turns to greet the sight of Drogon sweeping above their heads, his brothers playing tag behind him. When she finally does pull her eyes away from them, she takes in the sight of the northerners on the knees, no doubt having 'sought for cover'. She smirks down at them, though not cruelly as Qhono and his bloodriders do.

Tyrion offers his hand, helping the young queen to rise. "I'd say you get you to them But you never really do."

"Come," Missandei says once everyone is on their feet again. "Their father awaits."

As she turns she hears Lorna Snow ask the king's hand, "At some point, you've got to tell me how a Lannister became Hand to Daeron Targaryen."

"It's a long and bloody tale. To be honest, I was drunk for most of it," The Lannisters jokes. "I want to hear how a Night's Watch recruit became Queen in the North." Missandei doesn't see it, but she's sure the other woman has agreed to Lord Tyrion's terms. He's been itching to know for sometime, growing bored with lack of conversation that has nothing to do with politics and warfare.

There's a moment's pause behind her, then she hears the queen sigh. "My bannermen think I'm a fool for coming here."

"Of course they do. If I was your hand I would have advised against it-" Missandei quirks a brow but says nothing, continuing to listen on. She doubts he means any insult to their king. Tyrion simply has a way of seeing the board fromm all perspectives. "General rule of thumb," he says, as if educating the young queen, "Starks don't fare well when they travel south. That includes the women, let's not forget your father's wafe and sister.

"True. But I'm not a Stark."

Once again, Missandei reminds herself to inquire about this. Westerosi customs are so odd.


	6. Chapter 6

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello my lovely readers! So we are back for another chapter!**

 **Thank you for your lovely reviews! To answer a few:**

 **\- Anime Princess: Yes, because of the swapped genders, Lorna will be less inclined to bend the knee out of love as Jon had for Daenerys; and while Daeron will be every bit as demanding and unwavering as Daenerys, Lorna will see him as just another man trying to oppress her, whereas Jon had admired Daenerys for her strong-will.**

 **Also I recommend you guys check out "Fire, Blood and Winter" by Bad Ass Female Fighter. It's a female Jon, Male Daenerys AU story, I've only begun to read it but love it all the same!**

 **Now onto the story!**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. They are the property of George R.R. Martin and HBO.**

* * *

 **DAERON**

He watched them from his chambers. Almost their entire trek up from the beach. Tyrion and her seemed to be speaking for most of that time - catching up no doubt. It still irks Daeron, the fondness his Hand shows for a woman he'd known years ago and for a period of time less than that which he'd known Daeron himself. The king had originally thought perhaps the Lannister carried a torch for her - a notion quickly dispelled when Tyrion reminded him his tastes are far more mature, and Lorna Snow, though on the brink of womanhood, had still been very much a child back then. It had been a rather uncomfortable afffair, trying to whittle all that Tyrion knew of Snow and her family.

The young king had been both endeared and soured by the exclamation, _"I have a soft spot for cripples, bastards and broken things. Is it so hard to believe that the girl and I developed a kinship?"_ Daeron wouldn't deny his Hand that. Tyrion has a way of endearing people to him or creating enemies altogether. He supposes it's a good thing that Snow and Tyrion are familiar, then perhaps it wouldn't be so hard convincing her to bend the knee.

Daeron hadn't known what to expect, but certainly more men than the motley crew that had come with her. Either Lorna Snow had come to bend the knee or she's stupidly confident.

He saw as she ducked, fearful of his dragons. He couldn't help the smirk. _'The White Wolf... she is still a sheep compared to my dragons,'_ He'd thought as he left his solar to await Lorna Snow in the Throne room.

Daeron feels no fear nor doubts; his nerves do not quiver as they had done those times he was brought before his Masters. He was a boy then, a silver-haired street rat, the legacy of a ruin that he'd thought would be forgotten with time. Now he is a King, forging his own history.

He waits for them on his throne. The grand doors open, Qhono and Jhoto leading them. Missandei comes to his send, smiling her sweet smile. Daeron keeps from returning it, only a small twitch of his lips, enough for his dear friend to see that. His eyes meet Tyrion's then, the older man nodding at him respectfully before turning to take his position at Daeron's right hand, on the lower steps.

The king turns his attention to their guests. They're every bit as dour and solemn as Tyrion and Varys had described the Northerners to be. The boys seem to carry a youthfulness beneath their hyper-vigilance - not greenboys by a mile, but still far more innocent than the pair leading them. Lorna Snow and her advisor or senior guard - though he seems past his fighting days - wear haunted expressions, the woman especially.

Daeron knows that look. It's one of a seasoned warrior, not of glory and praise but of battle and bloodshed.

"You stand in the presence of Daeron Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful King of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Father of Dragons, the Khal of the Great Grass Sea, The Unburnt, The Breaker of Chains."

She stares at him. Scrutinising him as he does her.

Finally she breaks eye contact, to subtly glance at the older man at her side, questioningly, uncertain.

The man clears his throat. He nods at her, "This is Lorna Snow."

A short silence follows, Daeron and his own clearly expecting more. It's laughable the way Lorna Snow's advisor awkwardly adds, "She's Queen in the North."

 _"_ Thank you for traveling so far, My Lady. I hope the seas weren't too rough," Daeron says.

"The winds were kind, Your Grace," Lorna answers politely, either not noticing Daeron's 'mistake' or ignoring it.

The old man is less inclined to let it be, for he speaks up, "Apologies. I have a Flea Bottom accent, I know. But Lorna Snow is _Queen_ in the North, Your Grace. She's not a lady." The lady in question flushes a little, Daeron notes, bashful to say the least.

Daeron looks to the older man. "Forgive me -" he trails off, prompting Tyrion to properly introduce Ser Davos. "Forgive me, Ser Davos," he begins again, "I never did receive a formal education, but I could have sworn the last Northern monarch was Torrhen Stark who bent the knee to my ancestor Aegon Targaryen in exchange for his life and the lives of the northmen. Torren Stark swore fealty to House Targaryen in perpetuity. But do I have my facts wrong?"

"I wasn't there, your Grace."

"No, of course not," Daeron says forcing a smile at the knight's quip. "But still, an oath is an oath. And perpetuity means - what does perpetuity mean, Lord Tyrion?"

"Forever," Tyrion supplies, much to Lorna Snow's ire, at least the kind assumes so - her expression had changed very little from its polite dourness. If the situation weren't so serious and Daeron hadn't been secretly enjoying himself till now, he'd have made complaint regarding her sobriety.

"Forever," Daeron repeats. "So I assume, My Lady, that you're here to bend the knee."

Lorna isn't looking at him. She takes a moment, her fists clenching at her side. When she finally meets his gaze, there's a hint of resignation in her eye. Daeron dares to smirk, but it disappears altogether when she replies, "I am not."

"Oh?" The young king exhales. Voice tight, he goes on, "Well, that is unfortunate. You've travelled all this way to break faith with House Targaryen?"

"Break faith?" Lorna quips, a breathy laugh on her incredulous lips. "Your father burned my grandfather alive. He burned my uncle alive. He would have burned the Seven Kingdoms-"

"My father was an evil man," Daeron cuts her off. He knows to expect the shock and disbelief in ber expression, yet it hurts all the same. "On behalf of House Targaryen I ask your forgiveness for the crimes he committed against your family. And I ask you not to judge a son by the sins of his father." The woman says nothing, her expression schooled, though her eyes betray her - they flicker to the Lannister, silently seeking affirmation of Daeron's sincerity. He knows it should not bother him so, that he needs his Hand to forge alliances for him, yet the trust this woman gives Tyrion when she so obviously discredits himself feels a little insulting. Daeron tells himself that it is to be expected, pushing on- "Our two houses were allies for centuries. Those were the best centuries the kingdom's ever known. Centuries of peace and prosperity with the Targaryens sitting on the Iron Throne and a Stark serving as Warden of the North. I am the last Targaryen, Lorna Snow. Honor the pledge your ancestor made to mine. Bend the knee and I will name you Wardeness of the North. Together we will save this country from those who would destroy it."

Lorna contemplates a moment, which for Daeron seems to last a life time. "You're right," she says, and for a moment he relaxes, releasing the breath he'd not realised he'd been holding. But then the woman adds, "You're not guilty of your father's crime. And I'm not beholden to my ancestor's vows." Clenching his fists, he demands to know why she is here, why she sought to waste his time. "Because I need your help," the woman is brave enough to admit, hesitantly adding- "and you need mine."

Daeron smirks, looking over at his Hand. Tyrion himself seems to be baffled though hides this well. Addressing Lorna Snow, the young king asks, "Did you see three dragons flying overhead when you arrived?"

A beat. "I did."

"And did you see the Dothraki, all of whom have sworn to kill for me?"

"They're hard to miss," Lorna answers, voice tight and a stiff smile, glancing at the Qhono who's hand falls to the hilt of _her_ sword. Her eyes narrow but return to Daeron as he speaks, "But still, I need your help?"

"Not to defeat Cersei," Ser Davos, answers for his queen. "You could storm King's Landing tomorrow and the city would fall. Hell, we almost took it and we didn't even have dragons-"

"Almost," Tyrion corrects, catching the older man off-guard.

"But you haven't stormed King's Landing," Lorna cuts in, attention solely on him. "Why not? The only reason I can see is you don't want to kill thousands of innocent people. It's the fastest way to win the war but you won't do it," she shakes her head a little, as if reconsidering him. She pauses, then shrugs her shoulders, saying, "Which means - at the very least - you're better than Cersei."

"Still, that doesn't explain why _I_ need _your_ help."

"Because right now you and I and Cersei and everyone else, we're children playing at a game screaming that the rules aren't fair," she answers, loud and clear.

His fingers curl, scraping into the sculpted stone of his throne. A familiar anger, the desire to lash out, flares up within him. _Child. Boy._ That's what his Masters had called him. They'd said it, whispered it, commanded it like a sword in his belly, as if he were nothing more than an insect beneath their feet, champion or no. Baser than the mutts they fed their scraps too. "You told me you liked this _woman_ ," he spits in the direction of his Hand, teeth grinding with agitation.

"I do," the man replies, exasperatedly trying not to glare at the girl in question for making this all the more difficult for him.

"In the time since she's met me, she's refused to call me king, she's refused to bow and now she's calling me a child."

"I believe she's calling all of us children. Figure of speech," Tyrion says in a tone that silently urges the woman to not make him look a fool after he vouched for her to his king.

"Your Grace," Lorna interrupts, "Everyone you know will die before winter is over if we don't defeat the enemy to the North."

Daeron narrows his gaze at her. "As far as I can see, you are the only enemy to the north."

"I am not your enemy. The dead are the enemy."

A beat of silence fills the room. Daeron feels the tension leave him, bemusement filling its place, quickly followed by irritation. He quirks an eyebrow at her. "The dead?" he asks incredulously then, addressing Tyrion, "Is that another figure of speech?"

Unfortunately, Lorna Snow does not allow Tyrion is not the opportunity to offer a sarcastic little quip - "The Army of the Dead is on the march," she announces, so serious in tone and expression, Daeron wonders if the icy climate has made the northerners' humor so dull.

"The Army of the Dead?" Tyrion asks, raising his voice with the incredulity and frustration that his king feels.

The woman looks away from him then, turning her eyes towards his Hand. No doubt to make anothsr plea to him, much to the king's ire. "You don't know me well, My Lord, but do you think I am a liar or a madwoman?" she asks, a hint of frustration and exhaustion bleeding into her tone.

"No-no. I don't think you're either of those things." Daeron stares at his Hand with barely suppressed anger. Tyrion fucking Lannister stutters to placate the girl, not believing her lies but not denying them either. Daeron will have to speak to his Hand later, to discuss his fondness for this woman, and whether he holds such fondness for any other enemies.

She is still howling about having seen these things - these deadman, White Walkers, she calls them - trying to convince Daeron to turn his back on his real enemies, trying to trick him. She makes the mistake of stepping forward to assert herself. Qhono is quick to fall in frint of her, a sword raised at her throat. Her eyes narrow, glaring at the bloodrider before widening - no doubt having realised as Daeron has that her life hangs on the balance of her own sword.

Silence fills the hall. Tyrion shuffles a little, his expression betraying his displeasure at seeing his friend threatened so. The other Northmen tense as if for battle, but have no weapons to draw upon. They stay still for the sake of their queen's uncertain fate. Lorna Snow herself glares. Not at Qhono. At himself.

Daeron takes no pleasure in seeing the fire in her eyes. Only her well-kept anger, frustration... fear. She lets her defiance show, saying, "If they get past the Wall, and we're squabbling among ourselves... we're finished."

You're finished, is what she doesn't say.

 _'She may be a deluded fool. But she's a brave one.'_ Daeron considers her a moment longer, can see the conviction in her eyes. _'Still a fool though.'_

His eyes raise from her, taking in the tri-headed dragon - the sigil of his House, engraved on above to post of the entrance. "I was born at Dragonstone. Not that I can remember it." Standing from his throne, he moves forward slowly, feeling her eyes rake over his armour, before rising to meet his gaze as he speaks again. "We fled before Robert's assassins could find us. Robert was your father's best friend, no?" he pauses on the top step, watches her clench her jaws and fist, uncomfortable at his accusing tone. Descending the steps, he goes on, "I wonder if your father knew his best friend sent assassins to murder a baby in his crib. Not that it matters now of course," he says, a bittersweet smirk on his face, unappreciative of the shock and sympathy that flashes across her face. "I spent my life in foreign lands. So many men have tried to kill me. I don't remember all of their names. I have been sold like a brood mare. I have been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled-" his breath catches, so minutely one would not normally notice, but she does, as does Tyrion who's head he sees bows at the corner of his vision. Daeron does what he's always done - ignores the thudding of his heart, the feeling of a weight crushing his lungs - "Do you know what kept me standing through all those years in exile?" he demands more than asks of this woman. "Faith," he breathes. "Not in any gods. Not in myths and legends. In myself. In Daeron Targaryen. The world hadn't seen a dragon in centuries until my children were born. The Dothraki hadn't crossed the sea. Any sea." Daeron stops walking when he is face-to-face with the northern queen. "They did for me. I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms. And. I. Will."

He's so close, he can hear her soft breaths, sense the thrum of blood beneath her skin, see the slight panic in her eye. But he sees past that. And he doesn't like what he sees.

He doesn't want her pity. He wants her fealty. If that means intimidating her, making her fear him, then so be it. He'd prefer a loyalist, but she seems determined to oppose him, much like the slavers had.

He glares at her, where she just watches him carefully before answering, "You'll be ruling over a graveyard if we don't defeat the Night King."

Tyrion steps up to his side, partially placing himself between them, perhaps sensing a fist fight from the tension emanating from the pair of them. His voice is gentle and pleading, where Daeron's had been commanding - "The war against my sister has already begun. You can't expect us to halt hostilities and join you in fighting-" Tyrion cuts himself off, faltering a moment, as if remembering something. Daeron might have raised a brow and questioned him, had he not been locked in an eye contest with the woman - "... with whatever you saw beyond the wall," his Hand quickly finishes.

Davos steps forward, addressing him. "You don't believe her. I understand that. It sounds like nonsense," the onion knight admits bluntly, much to his surprise. "But if destiny has brought Daeron Targaryen back to our shores, it has also made Lorna Snow Queen in the North. You were the first to bring Dothraki to Westeros-" the man pauses, glancing at his queen, "-She was the first to make allies with Wildlings and northmen. She was named Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. She was named Queen in the North. Not because of her birthright. She has no birthright. She's a damn bastard-" Lorna Snow doesn't flinch at the term, but Daeron does, only a small wince of surprise at Ser Davos' brusque words..."All those hard son's of bitches chose her as their leader because they believe in her."

Daeron stops looking at Davos, retraining his gaze on Lorna. Her grey eyes are unscrupulous, watching him as carefully as he watches her, studies her. Something in her wavers as Davos continues to appraise her... "All those things you don't believe in... she faced those things. She fought those things for the good of her people. She risked her life for her people. She took a knife in the heart for her people. She gave her own -" that unbidden emotion breaks through her icy walls, forcing the queen's attention away from him to her dear Onion Knight. The older man sees what Daeron sees and immediately cuts himself short.

Tyrion and he exchange bemused glances. The Lannister makes another gambit to sway Lorna Snow to pledge her fealty. She parries at his attempts weakly, trying in vain to steer the discussion in the direction she wants.

"It takes no time to bend the knee," Tyrion argues. "Pledge your sword to his cause-"

"And why would I do that?" Lorna snaps. Turning to Daeron, she speaks, "I mean no offense, Your Grace, but I don't know you. As far as I can tell your claim to the throne rests entirely on your father's name. And my own father fought to overthrow the Mad King. The lords of the north placed their trust in me to lead them. And I will continue to do so as well as I can." Ser Davos schools his expression where her three younger companions fail to hide their amusement at their queen suddenly growing a backbone to give him a tongue-lashing.

"That's fair," he answers after a moment, a smirk adorning his Valyrian features when he adds, "It's also fair to point out that I'm the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms. By declaring yourself queen of the northern most kingdom, you are in open rebellion."

Discrete, yet her notices her hand reach for a sword she no longer possesses. He wonders if she's brave enough (or stupid enough) to snatch at either of his own broad swords.

Whatever might have been is interrupted the moment Varys barges into the room as quiet as a fox, and whispers in his ear of the fate of his allies. His _only_ allies. Biting his tongue, Daeron refuses to show frustration to the woman. Instead he dismisses her and her guard, but not before she demands to know whether she is now his prisoner.

He considers her a moment. She more annoyed than fearful at this point, he credits.

He regards his Hand from the corner of his eye. Tyrion is giving him a very pointed look. The man may not as yet know what news the Spider has brought, but he senses the shift. He knows that Lorna Snow still has value, even as she refuses them now. Or perhaps Tyrion just doesn't want to see his friend in chains.

Undecided himself, Daeron replies, "Not yet."


	7. Chapter 7

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi all, welcome to another chapter. Sorry about the late update.**

 **This is a chapter. There is a story here, underneath this really long author's note.**

 **So the last few chapters... not really anything new or original in terms of dialogue from the show, I know that. I moreso, just wanted to get inside the characters head** **s a bit more and begin to flesh out the reasoning behind the dialogue, trying to coin distinction between Daeron, Lorna and their respective counterparts Daeny and Jon. With Daeron particularly, i wanted to reflect his conflicting emotions and insecurities towards Lorna Snow, which we don't really see from Daenerys with regards to Jon. I also wanted to draw out their true personalities by stripping gender - so in that scene when the two meet, in the show a lot of people may have thought Daenerys was a "strong-willed woman standing her ground" - she is and I do agree to extant but some of her behaviour could also be perceived as child-like temper, stubborn and self-righteous particularly with demanding Jon bend the knee to honour an oath technically broken by her father. With Daeron, this behaviour is more apparent despite none of the dialogue or actions really being different.**

 **With the previous chapter, i just thought Missandei's POV would be interesting and it certainly divulged a little more backstory on the days prior to receiving Lorna Snow.**

 **There will be "original ideas and chapters" but they will also be intermingled with ideas and dialogue from the show.**

 **But thank you to those readers who did comment on my repetition of dialogue - I hope my above explanation is sufficient. You guys really helped think about where I'm going with my story and what I want to come through my writing.**

 **Onto other reviews:**

 **Mrs Tall Blonde and Dead - I haven't given much thought to Lorna's first interaction with tbe dragons. I do quite love the scene from the show, though honestly I don't think i'll be using it. Lorna's first interaction with the dragons will be different from Jon's, perhaps more like Tyrion's...**

 **TamashinoSuzume - I too didn't like how easily Jon bent the knee; I know he did it because he felt if he died, she'd protect the North and protect Sansa but I also felt he waa motivated by bis feelinga for Daeny. Lorna will not be the same. I can't imagine her bensing the knee - while she may not want her crown, she will wear her title as Queen in the North as long as North chooses her; if they ask her to bend the knee, only then would she (of cojrse they won't) so she'll fight for an alliance instead; as a woman in particular, Lorna understands just how vulnerable her claim is and just how much she'l have to prove her unwavering authority nd loyalty.**

 **ColdHeartAngel - I PMed you about this but for others... Daeron's backstory is rather different to Daenerys for the most part and this will be uncovered. He is a warrior, as comments have been dropped about scars and being unafraid of anyone with a sword. Viserys sold him quite freely since childhood, wherever it would earn him money or favour. I've mentioned a khaleesi somewhere too so we'll see where that takes us...**

 **JuneMD - Hi June, i think i described Lorna's armour in an earlier chapter but you're right I really should try to include clothing a little more. It might be some time till Daeron sees her in a dress but I daresay, he'll get to see aee more of her before then...**

 **Now onto the story...**

 **DISCLAIMER: i do not own Game of Thronea or any of its characters. They are the property of George R.R Martin and HBO.**

* * *

 **LORNA**

Her room is as cavernous as the throne room had been. Thankfully not as grand. It was little more than the Lord Commander's chambers, and at least twice the size of her quarters at Winterfell, back when she'd just been Ned Stark's bastard.

A sad smile adorns her face, thinking of those old quarters, with her single cot. She remembers all the times Robb had snuck into her bed when they were children, and then Arya when they grew older.

Her fingers brush over the red and black linen, a frown pulling at her lips.

"At least we've still got our heads," Davos supplies from behind her.

Lorna grimaces. "I was stupid. I failed my people-"

"I wouldn't say that."

"What would you say?" she demands, turning on him. Frustration fills her voice, and judging by his expression, her face too. Sighing, she drops unceremoniously into the chair by his side. Her gaze finds the fireplace. Though winter hasn't touched Dragonstone yet, cold winds have. On the way up from the beach, Tyrion had joked she'd brought the North with her. How she wishes now that were true.

The fireplace flickers. She'd never been afraid of fire - in the North, kindling fireplaces were more common a sight than sunshine at times. She'd not been afraid even when her hand had burned for the sake of destroying that first wight.

Now though - she's admittedly afraid. Ramsay Bolton had made her afraid, the images of flayed men, skinned alive and crucified still burned in her head, just as well as that of her brother - her _baby_ brother shot down like a field rabbit...

The Mad King's son has three dragons. His _children_ he'd called them. Three terrific, fire-breathing monstrosities; and from the sounds of it, Daeron has no problem unleashing them on his enemies.

 _'Only his enemies,'_ she muses. _'What does that mean for me?'_

Because Daeron Targaryen... he doesn't scare her. Intimidates her, sure, but no more than any other man has... at least that's what she tells herself. He'd spoken down at her like she were a child. _'To be fair you called him one too,'_ her conscience argues. Her conscience sounds an awful lot like Sam.

Sam. How she misses her dear friend. Gilly and little Sam too. She hopes his work at the Citadel proves more fruitful than her efforts here. He's already proven so, finding the dragonglass. Perhaps he can find something else. Like how did the first men keep defeat the White Walkers last time? The Wall would have taken years to erect; there must have been something else...

There must be something else she can do. Something more than sitting here, brooding over things that have and could have been.

"You did your best," Davos said. "We all knew the chances were slim. But what other choice was there?"

"Stay in the North? Prepare my people for the Long Night."

"You sister can do that," he says, trying to reassure her of her choice. All it does is make her aware of how ill-fitted she is.

Lowering her gaze, she whispers. "Sansa should have been queen. She'd know how to deal with the Mad King's son."

"As much as I admire your sister, if she were queen, she wouldn't be here." Lorna doesn't say anything to that, not wanting to circle the same argument over and over. Ser Davos sighs. The legs of his chair creak against the stone as he draws nearer to her. He doesn't look at her when he speaks, his gaze steady on the fires. "I loved Stannis like a brother. Even when his war killed my son and the girl I loved enough to consider a daughter. But he lost his way. I tried to warn him but he wouldn't listen. I would have gladly given my life for him...but not for his stupidity." His gaze then rises to meets hers, brow quirking as he asks, "Now do you think I'd be here if I didn't believe you were doing the right thing?" There's also a slight lift at the corner of his lips, daring her to call him a liar.

She can't.

Lorna's face softens, appreciative of this old man's faith in her. Still it does not quite quell her concerns. She'd been reluctant to hold a position of power after her brothers had betrayed her. She'd accepted the roles thrust upon her when it meant protecting her family, protecting her home.

' _Protecting the realms of men'_ she thinks.

A shiver rises up her spine, the memory of the Night King's eyes unnervingly bright, silently challenging her as he re-animated the corpses of those who'd lost their lives at Hardholme. If not for Longclaw, she realises how easily that could have been her. How easily it still could be if they don't defeat the Night King and his army. Which she can't do from here. And not without Daeron Targaryen's help.

Lorna exhales sharply, a whisper of her frustration intoned. Without resorting to crossing her arms and burrowing into her seat like a pouting child, she asks her advisor, "What now, then?"

"We wait. Negotiate," he shrugs.

"Negotiate," she repeats hollowly, expression deadpanned. "I don't know if you know this, but I have a very poor history of negotiations. The most recent of which took place less than an hour ago."

"These things take time."

"Time we do not have. Winter is here," she finishes somewhat despondent.

"Be patient," he advises again.

"Is that what you told Stannis Baratheon?" she's helpful to stop the words escaping her lips, but is immediately regretful of them. To his credit, Ser Davos hides his pain well; although it may have to do with the fact that he can't quite decide whether Stannis sacrificed Shireen or was ignorant - Lorna knows he's hoping for the latter, he'd been far too afraid to interrogate the Red Woman for the truth.

The corner of his lips quirk upwards, but it's also an incredibly sad expression, customed with his dimming eyes. "Like I said - he never listened."

Lorna nods, a silent apology. He accepts with one of his own, not to mention the fatherly pat on her shoulder. "Give it time," he says. "You heard him. We're not his prisoners."

Lorna finds herself disagreeing with him not a few hours later when she's met with a pair of Dothraki stationed at her door. Unlike most guards, they don't stand aside and watch the hallways - they watch her door. She tries to ignore this - ignore the natural way her hand moves for her sword only to find it missing. The moment she sets foot outside her chambers, they take a stance as if to stop her; they don't motion to take arms, but their confidence would be threatening enough to most people anyway.

She makes a motion to move down the hallway, and they fall into step, stopping immediately as she does. Lorna glares at them. They smirk at her. She recognises the one who took her sword; her eyes fall to his hip, devastated to find Longclaw not there. Lorna's gaze lifts to meet his when he speaks. The tongue is foreign to her, but there's no doubting the leer in his gaze or his salacious tone. His companion chuckles darkly with him, sharing a joke that she cannot defend herself from.

 _'They're baiting you,'_ she tells herself. _'They want you to react. They want a show.'_ Lorna straightens her spine, sharpens her glare, daring them to insult her again. Daring them to _try_ to get a rise out of her. She was naive and young once, a fool who let her emotions rule her despite what she thought she knew of herself. She learned control, learned to choose her battles, learned to disappoint the world splendidly - the latter she _may_ owe to a certain Lannister.

"Lorna Snow," a pleasant voice announces behind her. Turning, the young queen is met by the king's advisor.

"Missandei," she greets, forcing a polite smile; it grows a little more genuine when her two guards disappear silently like berated children at the quick look Missandei shoots them.

Once they're gone, Missandei asks, "You are going somewhere?"

"I thought I'd get some fresh air, yes. Does your king summon me?"

"The king has no need of you at present." _Need._ Lorna focuses on that, holds onto the hope - if not for her sake, then for her men. "Might I accompany you?"

Feeling helpless to deny the girl or risk ingratiating their so-called hospitality, Lorna consents. Missandei gestures for her to follow, leading her down the hallway, in the direction of the throne room.

"i thought I'd see that you are settling in well," Missandei explains after a few moments.

"As well as can be," Lorna answers.

Missandei nods. "You are not pleased to be here," the girl says; it's not a question, but a mere statement. "You are not a prisoner here, you are our guest."

"For now."

The girl doesn't acknowledge her rebuttal - Daeron's own words. "My king has no need for prisoners. It pains him to see people in chains. People are meant to be free, not bound, not slaves." There's something in her tone that speaks volumes of emotions, that Lorna cannot help the falter in her stony expression.

' _Breaker of Chains, they call him.'_

"King Daeron would prefer to make allies, not enemies. He gives people second chances, allows them to redeem themselves."

"And should someone not want a second chance, not redeem themselves? Should they not want to be his ally?"

"He has no use for enemies."

Lorna stiffens. Missandei notices and comes to a halt before the exit to a bridge leading down towards the beach. Turning to Lorna, she asks, "Would you not agree? What use have you, or anyone for that matter, of an enemy? If someone sought to destroy you, how would you treat them?"

"I'd negotiate," she bites out, though it comes out more strained than strong.

"A treaty? Not as formidable as an alliance. You must be skilled at negotiation," the girl comments.

Lorna grunts, "I'm working on it."

Missandei nods and smiles her sweet smile. "I wish you good luck then," she says before turning and leading her out onto the bridge. Lorna is beginning to think there is nothing disingenuous about this girl.

Missandei doesn't lead her down to the beach as she'd begun to think, but instead towards the cliffs, protesting it to be the best view on the whole island, second only to the south west parapets overlooking where Blackwater Bay meets the Narrow Sea. Although Missandei does pause them there briefly to take in the view; it is admittedly quite a breathtaking sight, the sunlight sparkling over the water.  
Lorna looks past the horizon where she imagines Essos to be; she and Arya would oft talk about taking a ship to Braavos and then travelling by foot around the Free Cities. When Arya was little, she'd boasted about wanting to be the first woman champion in the famous Fighting Pits of Meereen - neither Lorna nor Robb had the heart to inform the eight year old spitfire that those gladiators had been slaves forced to live, fight and die by the sword for some nobleman's amusement... _'A lot like war, but much less messy.'_

She turns away from the sight. Taking the hint, Missandei turns to fall in line with her, stepping gracefully down the stone staircase. They continue in strained yet oddly comfortable silence for a while. But there comes a point where she can no longer ignore the questioning looks Missandei throws her way, indecision on the other girls lips. "What is it?"

Missandei bites her lips, reluctant. Yet finds her voice in the end... "Forgive me, but may I ask a question?"

"Of course."

Missandei seems grateful to be indulged. The young queen thinks perhaps the question had been bothering her for sometime, but she had not expected to hear it - "Your name is Lorna Snow, but your father's name was Ned Stark?"

A stab of pain goes through her heart, an ache for her family, for her father and their quiet talks. The way he knew where to find her when she was off brooding somewhere, the way he knew what she was always thinking. "I'm a bastard." The answer should be enough, but Missandei seems more confused. "My mother and father weren't married," Lorna clarifies, somewhat awkwardly, realising she'd never quite said that before; she can count on her hands the number of times she'd mentioned her mother. Clearing her throat, she asks, "Is the custom different we're you're from?"

"We don't have marriage in Naarth so the concept of a bastard doesn't exist." (Later Lorna will divulge this facet of knowledge for no reason to Ser Davos. He'll call it _liberating_. And Lorna will agree, wistful and curious as sore memories dredge up that by the end of the night she'll find herself at the bottom of a bottle of wine and no Sansa to share it with). "Why can you not claim your father's name?" the girl asks her as they step off onto a soft dirt path.

"I had to be legitimised as Lorna _Stark_ by a king's decree. I never was." Though she came close with Stannis Baratheon, before ultimately rejecting his offer despite every fibre of her declaring the opposite.

"But if you are a queen now, can you not legitimise yourself?"

Honestly the thought hadn't occurred to her. _'Ygritte had been right. I know nothing.'_ She gives it a moment of thought, then shrugs her shoulders saying, "Seems silly now." And she'd be no different from Cersei Lannister hiding her children behind false titles to keep her claim to power. She knows what she is - The Bastard of Winterfell. All that she's gained and lost, all that she's fought for, all that she's earned, she didn't earn it by lying about who she is - least of all to herself.

"Would it not make things simpler? Ser Davos said you have no real claim to the North. If someone were to oppose you-"

"Someone like Daeron Targaryen?" Lorna interrupts.

Missandei stops, blushing a little; in her curiosity it would seem the girl has forgotten who she is speaking to, her king's not-quite-enemy, not-quite-ally, not-quite-prisoner.

Before the girl can make a word of apology, chastise or whatever, Lorna admits, "Many people claim themselves to be rightful kings or queens. They think they can hide behind titles. Daeron Targaryen may be the same. He may not. I don't know him very well to make that judgement. I only know myself. I know I have no true claim to the North. I never asked to be queen. I don't want it. But I accepted because my people chose me. And if tomorrow they ask me to step aside for my sister - my father's true heir - then I will step aside and support her, as she has me. I only live to serve."

The two stand facing each other in stony silence. Lorna tries to anticipate how the king's advisor will react. After some time, Missandei tilts her chin, a small quirk of at the corners of her lips. There's something of approval in her expression - at least that's what Lorna tells herself, but she cannot be sure. Missandei herself says nothing more on the matter, but gestures behind the young queen. Following her gaze, Lorna beholds the beautiful sight. Quietly she can't help but think that Missandei had been wrong about the parapets - _this_ has to be the best view on the whole island. The water is far more beautiful, shaped by white cliffs rising from the far south of the island. "Ser Davos would love this," Lorna shares, breathing in the fresh scent of grass mingling with the all too familiar salty sea breeze. A few hours ago the very thought of spending more time aboard her ship had made her queasy, and now she longs for the familiarity of somewhere safe, of something hers.

"Would you like me to fetch him?"

"No, let him rest. He deserves to rest."

"Very well, I will leave you to yourself."

Lorna turns to her, bemused. "You won't stay?"

Missandei shakes her head, an pleasant grin on her lips. "I must return to my king's counsel. And I suspect when you left your room, you were looking for solace away from the castle."

Lorna feels a grin pull at the corners of her own lips. "Thank you."

"You are most welcome, your Grace."

She's long gone by the time Lorna realises Missandei had used her title.


	8. Chapter 8

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey guys! Welcome back for chapter 8. I apologise that it's a bit of a shorty and does mimic the show a bit, but only because I want it to feed in to the next chapter which will be a bit longer, taking a different turn on the whole building an alliance thing.**

 **Thank you for you reviews. I noticed a few of you asked about Ygritte. All I can say is stay tuned; Lorna and Daeron's histories will be unveiled in time.**

 **Now onto the story.**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. They are the property of George R.R Martin and HBO.**

* * *

 **TYRION**

 _¤ A FEW HOURS EARLIER ¤_

They'd retreated to the counsel room once the Northern party and bloodriders had been dismissed.

"How did this happen?" Daeron demands to know; he keeps the tremble of rage from his voice, yet his clenched jaw and sword hand itching to strike out at anything cannot hide his seething nerves. Tyrion wonders if the exaggerated response has anything to Lorna Snow's insubordination - as anticipated as it was.

"It would seem that Cersei has struck an alliance with Euron Greyjoy," Varys reveals, circling to Tyrion's side.

Daeron turns his eye to Tyrion. "I thought you told me the Iron Islanders were beneath her."

"I thought they were. She must be getting desperate."

Varys hums, "Must be... she'll be betrothed to the Kraken, once he delivers Ellaria Sand to her."

Tyrion's eyes widen. Jaime no doubt would be furious. He wonders if Cersei even considered their brother's feelings - he sincerely doubts it.

Daeron's eyes narrow. "Desperate? We just lost our entire fleet? How could you not forsee this?"

"How could any of us?" Varys says, stepping up to Tyrion's defense. "The Ironborn may have the strongest fleet, and yet no House in Westeros would ever consider them worthy allies. They cannot be trusted."

"And yet you allowed me to ally with some of those Ironborn-"

"If I recall, I wasn't entirely enthused by it," Tyrion pipes up. At the glare Daeron throws him, he adds, "My memory must be fuzzy, I might have been drunk."

The young king's glare wavers. He looks away then, exasperation and lethargy shadowing his face. For half a second, he seems so young and helpless in Tyrion's eye, but then hardness returns, the fire that burns within the dragon, a tempest brewing in his eye. "What now?" he asks. "How do we know that we still have the backing of Dorne?"

"After what my father did to your brother's wife and children? We can trust that when the time comes, Dorne will ride to our defense. For now though, we'll be cut off," Tyrion answers.

Daeron's quiet a moment before voicing, "You are forgetting that Rhaegar abandoned their princess and her children for another woman. A Stark."

Tyrion quirks his brows, "Your Grace, I assure, the Dornish have no qualms against you. Yes a Targaryen may have been the cause of them losing sweet Elia Martell, but it was my father who became their enemy that day." Tyrion steps towards his king, gaining his full attention. "This is a setback - a catastrophic one, yes - but it is you who will offer them the vengeance they crave."

"Your father is dead. You killed him," Daeron reminds him, and try as he may Tyrion cannot feel regret of the act, haunted yes, but not regret. "Yet they still want to see the end of your family. Including you." Tyrion stiffens, recalling Ellaria's biting words. He cannot find in himself to blame her, having felt some sort of kinship for the Red Viper in their short acquaintance. "How do you think they will react when I refuse to give them your head. Not to mention your brother's who you've asked clemency of?"

Tyrion blinks. Of course he'd asked himself this question. But never once could come up with an answer other than - "I prefer to focus on one problem at a time."

Daeron narrows his eyes yet again, though this time there is not heat behind them. Shaking his head, the king rolls his eyes and looks away from his counsel, moving towards the balustrade.

"You're not of much use to me if you're to be so single-minded," the king quips, his dry-humour welcomed by Tyrion.

"Perhaps then you should give my head to the Dornish."

"Perhaps-" Tyrion knows the king hides a grin, despite his back being turned to them. "-But then I would be without a trusted Hand."

"Oh I'm sure Lord Varys would be more than suitable. And Missandei is coming up quite nicely in her lessons."

Daeron hums, barely cracking a grin at the joke. Tyrion thinks Daeron could fit in well in the North, he's rather good at being expressionless and sombre when he puts his mind to it. Lazing his steely purple gaze over Tyrion's head, the king asks, "Well Lord Varys? How would you feel about a promotion?"

"As flattered as I am, your grace, I'd much prefer to stay close to the ground," the Spider replies, tone ever-so humble.

Reaching for the wine flask, Tyrion begins to pour himself a drink, commenting, "How odd. I've spent my entire life close to the ground and care very little for it." That does earn a snort of amusement from their king. Daeron proffers an empty hand for Tyrion to fill with a goblet of wine.

He once told Tyrion he'd never been a big drinker, didn't like how it dulled the senses, except for when his body was being defiled by the next highest bidder.

The king downs 3 goblets within ten minutes.

 _¤ AT PRESENT MOMENT ¤_

Tyrion likes Dragonstone. For the reason that it reminds him of Casterly Rock, if you can forgive the lack-lustre of the stone fort. Casterly Rock always seemed to bathe in sunshine, then again the grey skies surrounding Dragonstone are only the first signs of the fast-approaching Winter.  
He likes Dragonstone, for the parapets, for the view, for the sweet-salty sea that hasn't been tarnished by cesspool scents as King's Landing has been by its own slums.

The counsel had left the dragon king to his own, allowing him to wallow with dignity in their defeat. Varys had disappeared, Tyrion knows not where, no doubt to whisper and receive whispers from his _little birds_. Missandei - she'd plastered a smile and squeezed Daeron's shoulder, telling him that they still had Grey Worm and the Unsullied; Tyrion couldn't help but feel that the young woman was trying to convince herself as much as her friend. And Tyrion... he'd foudn himself atop the parapets, for once not feeling like drowning his problems in wine. He owes that at least to Daeron.

Small footsteps alert him to another's presence. Glancing over his shoulder, he quirks a brow at the sight of his king's personal advisor.

"Lord Tyrion," she nods in greeting, her sweet smile ever-present.

"Missandei," he greets, frowning a little to see her journeying back up to the castle. "You went down to the cliffs unescorted?"

She tuts quietly, maybe teasingly, "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, my lord."

"Of course, but it is rather windy. And you are the king's closest friend. I daresay if you had to be blown into the ocean, he'd hang us all for being irresponsible enough to not look out for you."

Missandei giggles, but covers it up. "Well then, perhaps it will relieve you to know that I was not alone. Lorna Snow accompanied me. Or rather, I accompanied her," she finishes with secretive grin.

"Oh?" Tyrion can't help his surprise, though really he should know better - bastard she may be, she's still a Stark and no Stark likes to be caged for long. "And where is she now? Still down at the cliffs? Brooding, I presume."

The corners of the girl's lips turn downwards a little. "I believe so," she confirms. "Perhaps you should speak with her. I believe she could be... useful to our King, with the right convincing."

Again the dwarf cannot help but be surprised. It was rare that Missandei ever disagreed with Daeron, if ever, and yet now she seems to be hinting towards some sort of approval of the queen in the north. Her eyes glint with good-hearted mischief, warming the Lannister's heart. "Perhaps I should," he assents.

"I wish you good fortune. She seems... stubborn."

"Fortunately our King has given us much practice then."

He finds the White Wolf perched upon the rocks, like a statue unmoveable by the winds. Her scultped face is pulled into its usual sullen expression, perhaps a bit pinched with frustration. She gives no indication of having seen him approach her, absolutely zero acknowledgement. And yet he knows she knows he's there.

Stopping himself a short distance away from Lorna Snow, he faces the edge of the cliff, towards the oceans and horizons beyond. Tyrion tries to stay quiet - he lasts a whole twenty seconds. He tells her that he came out here to brood over his latest failure - not entirely a lie, he had escaped the indoors to brood before travelling down here to struck an accord - "You're making it difficult," he quips light-heartedly, when she refuses to acknowledge him with anything more than a cursory glance. "You look a lot better brooding than I do. You make me feel like I'm failing at brooding over failing."

Lorna's lips tighten just a fraction. He'd like to believe it was a hidden smile. "I'm a prisoner on this island," she remarks after a few moments of enduring his unwavering, studious eye. If Tyrion had to describe her tone, he'd say the jury was out.

"I wouldn't say you're a prisoner on this island. You're free to walk the castle, the beaches, to go wherever you want," he points out.

"Except to my ship. You took my ship."

"I wouldn't say we _took_ your ship-"

"I'm not playing word games with you," Lorna snips. "The dead are coming for us all," she adds, voice lower, frustration bleeding through her obvious exhaustion.

Stepping up to her, he clucks his tongue like a tutting father. "Why don't you figure out what to do about my missing fleet and murdered allies, and I'll figure out what to do about your walking dead men." It had not meant to be a joke, but he's frustrated too and deserves to be snippy.

"It's hard for me to fathom," she exclaims, angrily, rushing onto say, "If someone told me about the White Walkers and the Night King-" Lorna pauses and hangs her head. A bitter, hopeless expression drowns her pretty features and he's reminded of the night they first met, when he'd called her the Bastard of Winterfell, pointing out her obvious absence from King Robert's feast. She lifts her head slightly to face the ocean, as if she was wishing to throw herself of the cliff and drown in those depths, leaving all her problems behind. Tyrion would be lying if he said the thought hadn't ever crossed his mind, even as a boy. But he'd been much to craven. And thanks to Jaime, he'd discovered quite early that he could drown his sorrows in a good bottle of wine. "You probably don't believe me," she says.

"I do actually."

Shock and disbelief stare back at him for half a second, then melt away into scepticism. "You didn't before," she says. "Grumpkins and snarks you called them. Do you remember? You said it was all nonsense."

"It was all nonsense. Everybody knew it. But then Mormont saw them and you saw them, and I trust the eyes of honest men more than I trust what everybody knows."

Lorna seems grateful - it's hard to say, she's still as sullen as ever. Her eyes flicker to the keep, narrowing a little before turning away. She realises that Tyrion's little revelation had not been enough to convince the dragon king - not that she'd know that Tyrion hadn't even told Daeron that he believes her about the White Walkers. "How do I convince people who don't know me that an enemy they don't believe in is coming to kill them all?"

"Good question."

"I know it's a good question." she sighs, "I'm looking for an answer."

"People's minds aren't made for problems that large. White Walkers, the Night King, Army of the Dead, it's almost a relief to confront a familiar monster like my sister."

Lorna is quiet a moment, still staring out across the horizon. Tyrion feels a little guilty, as if he'd disturbed more than just her usual brooding. Finally her eyes meet his - "I need to help prepare my people for what's coming. I can't help them from here. I'd like to leave," she begs with her eyes.

He shakes his head, frowning at her. "It seems unlikely that you became Queen in the North by giving up that easily."

"Everyone told me to learn from father's mistakes. Robb's mistakes. Don't go south. Don't answer a summons from the Mad King's son, a foreign invader." She takes a deep breath, her little strength seeming to crumble as she admits, "And here I am. A northern fool."

Once again Tyrion tuts, "Children are not their fathers, luckily for all of us. And sometimes there's more to foreign invaders than northern fools that meets the eye." Lorna eyes him wearily, adversely anticipating him bolstering his king, much akin to the way Daeron's pride seemed to be wounded whenever Tyrion spoke of Lorna. _Children indeed.  
_ "Daeron could have sailed for Westeros long ago but he didn't. Instead he stayed where he was and saved many people from horrible fates, some of whom are on this island with us right now. While you're our guest here you might consider asking them what they think of the Mad King's son. He protects people from monsters, just as you do. That's why he came here," he says, seeing something flicker behind Lorna's eye. Empowered by this flash of emotion, he barrages on -"Daeron is not about to head north to fight an enemy he's never seen on a word of a woman he doesn't know after a single meeting. That's not a reasonable thing to ask." Tyrion is grateful that for all her stubborness she lacks some of Daeron's self-importance - yet even he knows that at the moment, trapped as she is convinced (which may be true), Lorna holds all the cards now. No doubt if an alliance is to be forged, Daeron must be the one to share the olive branch.

Right enough, the woman drops her chin and shoulders her way past Tyrion, not giving any sign of whether she will consider his advice or not - though she has before, and that had been when they'd barely known one another and she had no business trusting the _Imp_ , a _Lannister_. "So do you have anything reasonable to ask?" he raises his voice, loud enough to catch her attention before she disappears.

"What do you mean?" she huffs, spinning to face him, bemused.

"Maybe you are a northern fool," he sighs. "I'm asking if there's something I can do to help you."

"You could let me and my crew return to my ship."

"And risk you running away North-"

"I wouldn't run away-"

"I never said you would. But you understand why I must insist upon your presence."

"You want me to bend the knee."

"No."

"No?" she repeats, brow raised.

Tyrion shakes his head. "Not yet anyway," he adds, earning a frown from her - annoyed compared to the bemused one she'd been wearing mere moments ago. Go figure. "Something tells me you didn't travel all the way down here just for Daeron Targaryen's army. You could have just as easily gone to my sister-"

"She'd have killed me."

"And you didn't think Daeron would?"

"I wasn't sure. But-" Lorna hesitates, but sighs, "But I trusted you."

Albeit touched by the sentiment, Tyrion raises his brows, not entirely believing her. "And?"

"And what?"

"There's something else. The Northerners wouldn't have allowed you to come here based upon your trust in one man, least of all a Lannister."

"You're not like your family, though."

Tyrion shrugs, "To everyone else, I am." Lorna nods. "So, tell me what it is you came for." Again she seems reluctant to say. Tyrion sighs. "I may be Daeron's Hand, but I also consider you a friend. I have few friends. I want to help you. Help me, help you."

"Well I don't know how to help you, help me, help you with something if I don't know it."

Tyrion eyes her.

Lorna watches at him, brow raised.

Tyrion purses his lips. His face is blank - or blunt, rather.

"Are you playing word games with me, Lorna Snow?"

She shrugs halfheartedly, but a coy grin tugs at her lips, despite the exhaustion in her face.

"While I applaud your newfound sense of humour, I insist you tel-"

"Dragonglass."

Tyrion frowns at her, bemused at the interruption. "Dragonglass?" he repeats, warily.

She nods. Subtle traces of humour are swept from her face leaving in its wake a grim, gambling politician. No, no gambling. Lorna Snow may be one to take risks, but she's no Northern Fool, particularly if she has even half of her half-sister's brains. And experience tells Tyrion that the sisters are more alike than anyone will credit.

"Dragon glass," she affirms, voice curt with authority.

"And pray tell what do you need dragon glass for?"

"Other than Valyrian steel, weapons forged from dragon glass are the only thing that can destroy the Night King's army. And how many swords of Valyrian steel exist in Westeros?"

As far as he knows, only three. "And where do you plan on getting this dragon glass?"


End file.
